


unwanted gifts

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen, Lesley is not seen but is heard in this one, Post-Book: False Value, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: “Bev,” I said, holding a hand out behind me, already fumbling for my phone. “Bev, stay back, don’t get any closer.”Beverley stayed put, thank God, but called back, “Peter, what’s wrong, what is it?”“I don’t know,” I said, my hand on my phone, already dialing Nightingale’s number from memory, “But it’s from Lesley.”
Relationships: Beverley Brook/Peter Grant
Comments: 24
Kudos: 185





	unwanted gifts

The package came just a few days before the baby shower. 

We spotted it on the front step as we drove back from dinner at my parents, stuffed to the brim with my mum’s cooking. Beverley was dozing in the passenger seat while I drove, her hands resting on the high curve of the Bulge. “Mm, what’s that, then?”

“Dunno,” I said, parking in the drive. I probably should have been more suspicious, but the thing was that deliveries had been coming by for the last week at a regular clip, from Bev’s classmates that were abroad, my relatives from overseas, even a charming package that had shipped from the US, with Kim Reynolds’ address on the label. “More tributes, then?”

Beverley hummed, pleased. “Excellent,” she said, drawing it out like any good James Bond villain, tapping her fingers together, and looking even more pleased with herself when I laughed. 

Once I was out of the car, I casually tossed a werelight into the air as I stepped forward to pick it up, and then paused. There was no return address on it, which on its own wouldn’t have been been anything to worry over, but the writing for our address, something in the neat, small printing of my name--

When the realization hit, it felt like a brick to the head. Or like being tasered in the back. 

“Bev,” I said, holding a hand out behind me, already fumbling for my phone. “Bev, stay back, don’t get any closer.”

Beverley stayed put, thank God, but called back, “Peter, what’s wrong, what is it?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my hand on my phone, already dialing Nightingale’s number from memory, “But it’s from Lesley.”

*

Nightingale was the first to arrive, peeling into the drive with a squeal of the Jag’s tires, siren flashing. “It’s not a demon trap,” I told him immediately. 

“But it is from Lesley,” Nightingale pressed me, face set and his mouth thin with tension. 

“Yeah,” I said. “I recognize the handwriting.”

Nightingale stood still for a minute longer, looking at me and Beverley, standing close by my side, and then he nodded sharply and said, “Stay back.”

He went up to the front door with quick strides and flicked his hand over the cardboard package, and then all the sides split open as though we were in some advert from Amazon or John Lewis--a gift so wonderful the box unwrapped itself, thanks to the magics of CGI. 

It was a car seat, along with other packages tucked inside. Nightingale opened the rest of the packages as well, one by one, his face growing grimmer and grimmer as objects were scattered across the steps--a baby blanket crumpled on the grass, tiny clothes in a variety of bright colors.

"What the hell," Beverley murmured, and I reached out and took her hand in mine, her fingers cool and strong.

We stayed quiet while Nightingale finished rummaging through the package, but at last he looked up and said, "There's nothing here."

"Could be something in the car seat," I said, and Nightingale grimaced.

"If there is, I won't be able to find it here." He paused, and then added, "I can take it in as evidence, bring it to the Folly, and from there--"

Beverley stirred at this, and she asked, "Why?"

"Because it is evidence," I said. "If there's the chance it'll link us to where Lesley is, or where she's been--"

Beverley shook her head. "But it won't," she said. "It won't because she'll be too careful, and even if you could find where she was, it won't matter because she can change her face to look like anyone. This is the same as every other spiteful thing she's done, pretending like we would want any gift from her--"

"Bev," I said, but she wasn't listening.

"When _really,_ the only gift I want is to see her in prison and as far away from my family as possible," Beverley finished in a near-shout; dimly I could hear rushing water, and I knew that there would be reports of her river flooding by morning.

I wasn’t surprised by her outburst, or her anger. I remembered when, just the last month, we had run into Zach Palmer at the goblin market and Beverley had held my hand in a tight grip as she’d glared at Zach until he’d turned and gone in the other direction, as fast as his legs could carry him.

Bev had been unrepentant when I’d asked her why, she’d just held on tighter to my hand and said, “He’s Lesley’s stooge, he should be glad that all he’s getting is a dirty look.”

Now, with Lesley’s unwelcome gifts scattered all over our front step, I wondered if that moment in the goblin market had started this in motion, if Zach was somehow still in touch with Lesley, if he’d said something and it had inspired her to--

But wondering like this would never be useful. 

I squeezed Beverley’s hand. “Bev. I know you’re angry. But we still have to follow through with this properly.” Beverley didn’t say anything, still glaring furiously at the wreckage of cardboard, and I added softly, “We do. Because personal's not the same as important."

Beverley side-eyed me, and said, "Quoting Pratchett's not going to convince me, you know."

"It's always worth a shot," I said. "But it's also true. What Lesley's doing is personal. But it's important to collect this as evidence, and sift through it, because she's been sloppy before, she's being sloppy now, and she'll be sloppy again." I paused, and then said, “But we don’t have to be.”

Beverley exhaled, rubbing her free hand along the curve of the Bulge. She closed her eyes for a moment, and let out a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.”

We didn’t say much as Nightingale gathered everything and packed it into the back of the Jag. I had tried to come forward and help him pick it up, at least, but Nightingale waved me off--he seemed determined to make sure I didn’t touch any of it at all. 

There was an envelope in the muddle of cardboard and baby gifts; Nightingale was the one to open it and scan over whatever was written inside.

“You going to let me read it?” I asked at last, and Nightingale looked at me.

“Do you want to read it?” 

I paused, but the answer was still the same. “Not really, no.” 

Nightingale nodded in understanding. “We can go over it all in the morning,” he assured me, a promise that it could wait until the morning, and a guarantee that we’d follow proper procedure when the morning came.

“Still think my plan would’ve been more satisfying,” Beverley muttered.

“Yeah, what was that?” I asked.

“Take it all to the back and have Thomas set it all on fire,” Beverley said dreamily. 

“Why have him do it?” I asked. 

Beverley gestured at Nightingale, who quirked an eyebrow back at her. “Look at him--he’d definitely set it on fire if he had the chance.”

Nightingale’s mouth twitched. “No comment.”

“That’s not a no,” I said, giving him a look. “And anyway, you don’t want to set it on fire, the melting plastic would smell horrible.”

“I could compensate for that,” Nightingale said casually. “Just to be clear.”

“Are you actually thinking out how to destroy evidence?” I demanded. 

Nightingale shrugged. "When thinking through a course of action, it's prudent to consider the logistics."

I honestly didn't know what to talk about first, the fact that Nightingale was using the phrase "consider the logistics" or the fact that Bev was right and he absolutely did want to set the whole thing on fire in our back garden, and was only refraining now because I’d said no.

But he had said no, and Beverley had agreed. I could just take the victory and go--well, _stay_ home. 

Beverley looped her arm around my waist as Nightingale started to walk back to the Jag, but then Nightingale paused and turned to look at us. “It really is just spite, you know,” he said. “Don’t let her spoil anything for you.”

“We won’t,” Beverley said firmly, warm and soft against my side. 

“We’ll be fine,” I told Nightingale. 

“Of course you will,” Nightingale agreed, with a ghost of a smile, and then he got into the Jag and drove away. 

*

The baby shower was a success, of course. We didn’t bother with any of the games or anything like that, just invited people over for food and drinks (both alcoholic and non-alcoholic) and gave them the option to provide gifts in return, which pretty much everyone did. 

I was having a good time, but at one point, I found myself removed from the main groups of people, watching Beverley laugh with Sahra and Jaget and Effra, but still glancing out every few minutes through the window, waiting for--I didn’t know what, to see a glimpse of a blond ponytail walking past, Lesley striding up to the front door, her face rippling from one stranger’s face to the next, weapon in hand--

It wouldn’t happen, of course. I knew it wouldn’t. Lesley was a lot of things, things I couldn’t understand and didn’t want to, but she wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t march in now, when she was wildly outnumbered and outmatched, no, she would just--

Send a gift to needle me and Bev, out of spite and God only knew what else. 

I heard Nightingale approaching behind me but didn’t look back. He touched me briefly on the back and nodded at my drink. “Do you need another?”

“I’m the host, I should be asking you that,” I replied. Nightingale smiled at this, just a small curve of his lips. “Did Beverley send you here to check on me?”

“Do you need to be checked on?” Nightingale parried, which wasn’t a denial. He nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Come over and have some food, Molly will be disappointed if you don’t try some of the vol-au-vents she sent over.”

“Well, I can’t disappoint Molly,” I agreed, and I let Nightingale lead me towards the table that was on the verge of buckling with all the food that Molly and my mother had sent over or brought in. 

Nightingale’s hand was resting on my shoulder as we made our way through the room, and Beverley gave me a warm smile as we passed by her chair. I could feel myself relaxing, a sourness in the back of my throat starting to fade away at last. 

“Ooh, bring me some more of those,” Beverley called out, and I laughed without thinking. “Coming, babes,” I promised, as Nightingale chuckled next to me. “I don’t know what you’re laughing about, you’re helping me bring these over to her,” I told him, popping a vol-au-vent in my mouth. 

“Certainly,” Nightingale said, and he was as good as his word, like always.


End file.
